The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Volume 2 Jewish poems: Translations

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Title: The Poems of Emma Lazarus

       Vol. II. (of II.), Jewish Poems: Translations

Author: Emma Lazarus

Release Date: January 13, 2009 [EBook #3473]

Last Updated: February 4, 2013

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POEMS OF EMMA LAZARUS ***

Produced by Douglas E. Levy, and David Widger

THE POEMS of EMMA LAZARUS

By Emma Lazarus

in Two Volumes

VOL. II.

Jewish Poems: Translation

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

  As a convenience to the reader I have included in this volume the

  biographical sketch of Emma Lazarus which originally appeared only

  in Vol. I. of these works.  Further, the sketch contains references

  to passages contained in this volume.—D.L.

CONTENTS

EMMA LAZARUS. (Written for The Century Magazine)

THE NEW YEAR.

THE CROWING OF THE RED COCK.

IN EXILE.

IN MEMORIAM—REV. J. J. LYONS.

THE VALLEY OF BACA.

THE BANNER OF THE JEW.

THE GUARDIAN OF THE RED DISK.

THE NEW EZEKIEL.

THE CHOICE.

THE WORLD'S JUSTICE.

THE SUPREME SACRIFICE.

THE FEAST OF LIGHTS.

GIFTS.

BAR KOCHBA.

THE BIRTH OF MAN.

RASCHI IN PRAGUE.

THE DEATH OF RASCHI.

AN EPISTLE.

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.

TO CARMEN SYLVA.

THE DANCE TO DEATH

THE PERSONS.

ACT I.—In Nordhausen.

ACT II.—At Eisenach.

ACT III.

ACT IV.

ACT V.

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE HEBREW POETS OF MEDAEVAL SPAIN.

TO A DETRACTOR.

FRAGMENT.

STANZAS.

WINE AND GRIEF.

MOSES BEN ESRA (About 1100).

IN THE NIGHT.

FROM THE DIVAN.

LOVE SONG OF ALCHARISI.

NACHUM.

A TRANSLATION AND TWO IMITATIONS.

TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH.

IN MORTE. II. ON THE DEATH OF CARDINAL

TRANSLATIONS FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET.

NOTES TO EPISTLE OF JOSHUA IBN VIVES OF ALLORQUI.

  Publisher's note: Thanks are due to the Editors of The Century,

  Lippincott's Magazine, and The Critic, for their courtesy in

  allowing the poems published by them to be reprinted in these pages.

EMMA LAZARUS. (Written for The Century Magazine)

Born July 22, 1849; Died November 19, 1887.

One hesitates to lift the veil and throw the light upon a life so hidden and a personality so withdrawn as that of Emma Lazarus; but while her memory is fresh, and the echo of her songs still lingers in these pages, we feel it a duty to call up her presence once more, and to note the traits that made it remarkable and worthy to shine out clearly before the world. Of dramatic episode or climax in her life there is none; outwardly all was placid and serene, like an untroubled stream whose depths alone hold the strong, quick tide. The story of her life is the story of a mind, of a spirit, ever seeking, ever striving, and pressing onward and upward to new truth and light. Her works are the mirror of this progress. In reviewing them, the first point that strikes us is the precocity, or rather the spontaneity, of her poetic gift. She was a born singer; poetry was her natural language, and to write was less effort than to speak, for she was a shy, sensitive child, with strange reserves and reticences, not easily putting herself en rapport with those around her. Books were her world from her earliest years; in them she literally lost and found herself. She was eleven years old when the War of Succession broke out, which inspired her first lyric outbursts. Her poems and translations written between the ages of fourteen and seventeen were collected, and constituted her first published volume. Crude and immature as these productions naturally were, and utterly condemned by the writer's later judgment, they are, nevertheless, highly interesting and characteristic, giving, as they do, the keynote of much that afterwards unfolded itself in her life. One cannot fail to be rather painfully impressed by the profound melancholy pervading the book. The opening poem is In Memoriam,—on the death of a school friend and companion; and the two following poems also have death for theme. On a Lock of my Mother's Hair gives us reflections on growing old. These are the four poems written at the age of fourteen. There is not a wholly glad and joyous strain in the volume, and we might smile at the recurrence of broken vows, broken hearts, and broken lives in the experience of this maiden just entered upon her teens, were it not that the innocent child herself is in such deadly earnest. The two long narrative poems, Bertha and Elfrida, are tragic in the extreme. Both are dashed off apparently at white heat: Elfrida, over fifteen hundred lines of blank verse, in two weeks; Bertha, in three and a half. We have said that Emma Lazarus was a born singer, but she did not sing, like a bird, for joy of being alive; and of being young, alas! there is no hint in these youthful effusions, except inasmuch as this unrelieved gloom, this ignorance of values, so to speak, is a sign of youth, common especially among gifted persons of acute and premature sensibilities, whose imagination, not yet focused by reality, overreached the mark. With Emma Lazarus, however, this sombre streak has a deeper root; something of birth and temperament is in it—the stamp and heritage of a race born to suffer. But dominant and fundamental though it was, Hebraism was only latent thus far. It was classic and romantic art that first attracted and inspired her. She pictures Aphrodite the beautiful, arising from the waves, and the beautiful Apollo and his loves,—Daphne, pursued by the god, changing into the laurel, and the enamored Clytie into the faithful sunflower. Beauty, for its own sake, supreme and unconditional, charmed her primarily and to the end. Her restless spirit found repose in the pagan idea,—the absolute unity and identity of man with nature, as symbolized in the Greek myths, where every natural force becomes a person, and where, in turn, persons pass with equal readiness and freedom back into nature again.

In this connection a name would suggest itself even if it did not appear,—Heine, the Greek, Heine the Jew, Heine the Romanticist, as Emma Lazarus herself has styled him; and already in this early volume of hers we have trace of the kinship and affinity that afterwards so plainly declared itself. Foremost among the translations are a number of his songs, rendered with a finesse and a literalness that are rarely combined. Four years later, at the age of twenty-one, she published her second volume, Admetus and Other Poems, which at once took rank as literature both in America and England, and challenged comparison with the work of established writers. Of classic themes we have Admetus and Orpheus, and of romantic the legend of Tannhauser and of the saintly Lohengrin. All are treated with an artistic finish that shows perfect mastery of her craft, without detracting from the freshness and flow of her inspiration. While sounding no absolutely new note in the world, she yet makes us aware of a talent of unusual distinction, and a highly endowed nature,—a sort of tact of sentiment and expression, an instinct of the true and beautiful, and that quick intuition which is like second-sight in its sensitiveness to apprehend and respond to external stimulus. But it is not the purely imaginative poems in this volume that most deeply interest us. We come upon experience of life in these pages; not in the ordinary sense, however, of outward activity and movement, but in the hidden undercurrent of being. The epochs of our life are not in the visible facts, but in the silent thoughts by the wayside as we walk. This is the motto, drawn from Emerson, which she chooses for her poem of Epochs, which marks a pivotal moment in her life. Difficult to analyze, difficult above all to convey, if we would not encroach upon the domain of private and personal experience, is the drift of this poem, or rather cycle of poems, that ring throughout with a deeper accent and a more direct appeal than has yet made itself felt. It is the drama of the human soul,—the mystic winged and flickering butterfly, flitting between earth and sky, in its passage from birth to death.

A golden morning of June! Sweet empty sky without a stain. Sunlight and mist and ripple of rain-fed rills. A murmur and a singing manifold.

            "What simple things be these the soul to raise

             To bounding joy, and make young pulses beat

             With nameless pleasure, finding life so sweet!"

Such is youth, a June day, fair and fresh and tender with dreams and longing and vague desire. The morn lingers and passes, but the noon has not reached its height before the clouds begin to rise, the sunshine dies, the air grows thick and heavy, the lightnings flash, the thunder breaks among the hills, rolls and gathers and grows, until

                   Behold, yon bolt struck home,

             And over ruined fields the storm hath come."

Now we have the phases of the soul,—the shock and surprise of grief in the face of the world made desolate. Loneliness and despair for a space, and then, like stars in the night, the new births of the spirit, the wonderful outcoming from sorrow: the mild light of patience at first; hope and faith kindled afresh in the very jaws of evil; the new meaning and worth of life beyond sorrow, beyond joy; and finally duty, the holiest word of all, that leads at last to victory and peace. The poem rounds and completes itself with the close of the long, rich day, and the release of

           "The mystic winged and flickering butterfly,

            A human soul, that drifts at liberty,

            Ah! who can tell to what strange paradise,

            To what undreamed-of fields and lofty skies!"

We have dwelt at some length upon this poem, which seems to us, in a certain sense, subjective and biographical; but upon closer analysis there is still another conclusion to arrive at. In Epochs we have, doubtless, the impress of a calamity brought very near to the writer, and profoundly working upon her sensibilities; not however by direct, but reflex action, as it were, and through sympathetic emotion—the emotion of the deeply-stirred spectator, of the artist, the poet who lives in the lives of others, and makes their joys and their sorrows his own.

Before dismissing this volume we may point out another clue as to the shaping of mind and character. The poem of Admetus is dedicated to my friend Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emma Lazarus was between seventeen and eighteen years of age when the writings of Emerson fell into her hands, and it would be difficult to over-estimate the impression produced upon her. As she afterwards wrote: To how many thousand youthful hearts has not his word been the beacon—nay, more, the guiding star—that led them safely through periods of mental storm and struggle! Of no one is this more true than herself. Left, to a certain extent, without compass or guide, without any positive or effective religious training, this was the first great moral revelation of her life. We can easily realize the chaos and ferment of an over-stimulated brain, steeped in romantic literature, and given over to the wayward leadings of the imagination. Who can tell what is true, what is false, in a world where fantasy is as real as fact? Emerson's word fell like truth itself, a shaft of light shot from the zenith, a golden rule of thought and action. His books were bread and wine to her, and she absorbed them into her very being. She felt herself invincibly drawn to the master, that fount of wisdom and goodness, and it was her great privilege during these years to be brought into personal relations with him. From the first he showed her a marked interest and sympathy, which became for her one of the most valued possessions of her life. He criticised her work with the fine appreciation and discrimination that made him quick to discern the quality of her talent as well as of her personality, and he was no doubt attracted by her almost transparent sincerity and singleness of soul, as well as by the simplicity and modesty that would have been unusual even in a person not gifted. He constituted himself, in a way, her literary mentor, advised her as to the books she should read and the attitude of mind she should cultivate. For some years he corresponded with her very faithfully; his letters are full of noble and characteristic utterances, and give evidence of a warm regard that in itself was a stimulus and a high incentive. But encouragement even from so illustrious a source failed to elate the young poetess, or even to give her a due sense of the importance and value of her work, or the dignity of her vocation. We have already alluded to her modesty in her unwillingness to assert herself or claim any prerogative,—something even morbid and exaggerated, which we know not how to define, whether as over-sensitiveness or indifference. Once finished, the heat and glow of composition spent, her writings apparently ceased to interest her. She often resented any allusion to them on the part of intimate friends, and the public verdict as to their excellence could not reassure or satisfy her. The explanation is not far, perhaps, to seek. Was it not the Ewig- Weibliche that allows no prestige but its own? Emma Lazarus was a true woman, too distinctly feminine to wish to be exceptional, or to stand alone and apart, even by virtue of superiority.

A word now as to her life and surroundings. She was one of a family of seven, and her parents were both living. Her winters were passed in New York, and her summers by the sea. In both places her life was essentially quiet and retired. The success of her book had been mainly in the world of letters. In no wise tricked out to catch the public eye, her writings had not yet made her a conspicuous figure, but were destined slowly to take their proper place and give her the rank that she afterwards held.

For some years now almost everything that she wrote was published in Lippincott's Magazine, then edited by John Foster Kirk, and we shall still find in her poems the method and movement of her life. Nature is still the fount and mirror, reflecting, and again reflected, in the soul. We have picture after picture, almost to satiety, until we grow conscious of a lack of substance and body and of vital play to the thought, as though the brain were spending itself in dreamings and reverie, the heart feeding upon itself, and the life choked by its own fullness without due outlet. Happily, however, the heavy cloud of sadness has lifted, and we feel the subsidence of waves after a storm. She sings Matins:—

                  "Does not the morn break thus,

                   Swift, bright, victorious,

                   With new skies cleared for us

                   Over the soul storm-tost?

                   Her night was long and deep,

                   Strange visions vexed her sleep,

                   Strange sorrows bade her weep,

                   Her faith in dawn was lost.

                  "No halt, no rest for her,

                   The immortal wanderer

                   From sphere to higher sphere

                   Toward the pure source of day.

                   The new light shames her fears,

                   Her faithlessness and tears,

                   As the new sun appears

                   To light her god-like way."

Nature is the perpetual resource and consolation. 'T is good to be alive! she says, and why? Simply,

                            "To see the light

            That plays upon the grass, to feel (and sigh

            With perfect pleasure) the mild breeze stir

              Among the garden roses, red and white,

                With whiffs of fragrancy."

She gives us the breath of the pines and of the cool, salt seas, illimitably sparkling. Her ears drink the ripple of the tide, and she stops

        "To gaze as one who is not satisfied

         With gazing at the large, bright, breathing sea."

Phantasies (after Robert Schumann) is the most complete and perfect poem of this period. Like Epochs, it is a cycle of poems, and the verse has caught the very trick of music,—alluring, baffling, and evasive. This time we have the landscape of the night, the glamour of moon and stars,—pictures half real and half unreal, mystic imaginings, fancies, dreams, and the enchantment of faerie, and throughout the unanswered cry, the eternal Wherefore of destiny. Dawn ends the song with a fine clear note, the return of day, night's misty phantoms rolled away, and the world itself, again green, sparkling and breathing freshness.

In 1874 she published Alide, a romance in prose drawn from Goethe's autobiography. It may be of interest to quote the letter she received from Tourgeneff on this occasion:—

    "Although, generally speaking, I do not think it advisable

    to take celebrated men, especially poets and artists, as a

    subject for a novel, still I am truly glad to say that I

    have read your book with the liveliest interest.  It is

    very sincere and very poetical at the same time; the life

    and spirit of Germany have no secrets for you, and your

    characters are drawn with a pencil as delicate as it is

    strong.  I feel very proud of the approbation you give to

    my works, and of the influence you kindly attribute to